


Thread Noose

by aryastarkstits



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bit of Homoerotic Subtext, Cheating, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Jon Snow Doesn't Join the Night's Watch, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Princess Arya Stark, Robb Stark is King in the North, Sibling Incest, Starkcest (ASoIaF), Voyeurism, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 04:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19124683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aryastarkstits/pseuds/aryastarkstits
Summary: He had his little wife, had made her Queen in the North to the outrage of his mother and the Freys and so many others, too. But he had done it for love, done it for honor.Despite all their ire he had never once regretted his choice.Until now.Watching Arya red-faced in the training yard, clad in leather just as fine as any gown, the sound of steel and her movements raising his blood in equal turns, he regretted his wedding as he never had before.





	Thread Noose

We must be the first he had said, willing himself to believe it. Willing it to be true.

He had as much trouble believing in their victory now, ahorse high above the corpses of the ironborn who had tried and failed to hold Moat Cailin, as he had in Riverrun.

“We have taken Moat Cailin, defeated the ironborn on a field on which none have ever triumphed. At first light, we will begin the long ride for Winterfell and root out the Greyjoys to reclaim the North.”

Men and women cheered around him. His crown felt leaden upon his head.

“King in the North!” Some said. Said others, “Winterfell!”

His people began to break off, in search of food or their bed or in the case of many, a bed warmer.

As the fierce winds reddened his cheeks, he longed for his queen. Jeyne has stayed behind in Riverrun at his behest, but he would have given anything for her to be waiting just behind the grey cloth of his tent.

Robb jumped down from his horse, handing the reins off to his squire, a young son of House Liddle who had taken on the job of gathering all the horses after the fighting was done and seeing to them. He was far too young to be of any use in battle, but he made it possible for the fighting men and women to unwind rather than water and feed their own horses. He gave his thanks to the lad.

He winced as he walked. He had been in the saddle throughout the battle and the aching in his sword arm was well and truly rivaled by the aching in his legs, his thighs especially. Again, Robb’s thoughts wandered to how much he wished Jeyne were there. He could slake the feverish thirst the battle had stoked in him with her body and let her soft hands soothe his aches away. 

Though most of his men, and many of the women, would be taking a whore to their bed that night, Robb could not imagine dishonoring his queen by taking another, so it seemed he would have to soothe his own aches.

First, though, he intended to get very, very drunk.

Robb ducked into his dark tent and made straight for his flagon of wine. He lifted it, remembering as he felt its lack of heft that he had drained it the night before and refused to have it refilled for fear of being in his cups on the battlefield. The Little Liddle would be around as soon as he finished with the horses, Robb knew, but that could take an hour and he meant to be abed long before then.

He knew of only one man in the camp whose bed was sure to be as cold and empty as his own. And an empty bed meant full cups.

“Your Grace.” Jon knelt in deference. As he stood, he handed Robb a cup full of wine. He had yet to re-dress once his wound was tended and thus wore only his breeches and a cream-colored, blood-spotted bandage around his waist.

“You know, the tent won’t catch flame if a woman crosses the threshold. Are you so determined to never know one’s touch?”

“Never, Your Grace. Once yourself and Her Grace have a true heir you know my intentions. I’ll not leave behind a bastard.”

“Not this folly again. Jon, you are my brother. I will not let you condemn yourself to that damned wall.” Churlishly, Robb filled his own cup with Jon’s wine.

“The Night’s Watch has guarded Westeros for more than eight thousand years. The black brothers are every bit as noble as any lord.”

“Aye, and it’s an honorable fate for rapers and thieves and third sons of lesser lords without a half-penny to their name. You are my brother, you are the King’s brother.” Robb removed his crown, feeling a thousand years younger without its weight. He forced it into Jon’s hands. “You are heir to the North.” Jon paled as he looked at the crown, and then set it beside the wine on the table. “Once we retake Winterfell, I’ll make you a Prince of the North. Every woman in the Seven Kingdoms will be on her knees at Winterfell’s gate, begging to be your bride.”

“Once Arya comes home, you’ll have no need of me,” his voice was low and hopeful. Jon made no mention of a homecoming for Sansa, even Robb’s lady mother had accepted that her wedding to the Imp meant she was lost to them.

However, she and Jon persisted in their belief that Arya was alive somewhere in hiding, just waiting to hear that the Starks ruled in Winterfell once again. They, who had never seen eye to eye on anything, were united in this. As much as he wished he shared their optimism, kingship had wrung every last drop of boyish faith out of him.

“Jon…,” they had had this same conversation a dozen times.

“She was seen in King’s Landing after father was killed, and again less than a moon ago here in the Riverlands.” Jon’s eyes were far too bright. He looked more the boy he had been in Winterfell than the man he was, the man he needed to be. Robb almost felt embarrassed for him.

“And you have seen the women they claimed were our sister. Mummers and whores. Do you think we will find Arya dressed in grey gossamer in some northern brothel?” He wanted to shock some sense into his half-brother with the absurdity of the suggestion, but his blood cooled as he saw a veil of stoicism fall over Jon’s face.

“We might,” Jon said darkly, draining his cup and refilling it. Robb’s heart sunk to his stomach at the implication behind Jon’s words. His hands curled into fists at his sides. He turned his back to Jon and lifted the tent flap, suddenly seeing Arya’s face in place of each of the camp followers’. Some were pretty, teeth a shade of bright white to rival the moon, hair long and thick, and some were not, scarred and sad, hair a lusterless mass against their back.

Arya’s screams used to echo through the halls of Winterfell whenever their mother took a brush to her tangled hair. A sad, dark-haired whore met his gaze from across the fire. She tilted her head, not beckoning, but not rebuffing either. He let the tent fall closed on her, turning to face Jon, who was refilling his cup again.

“Better she be dead.”

“Don’t.” Jon’s tone was not one he would have allowed from anyone save his blood, and had there been an audience he would have been forced to enact some sort of punishment for the insolence.

“What if Arya does not come home? Will you go on believing she is alive, but leave her to her fate, whatever that is, and leave us for the wall?”

“If Arya does not come home,” Jon met his eyes with his own. Stark grey, Father’s grey, Arya’s grey. “I will find her and bring her home.”

His meaning was clear, whether she was flesh and blood or bones, he would see their little sister Arya safe within Winterfell's stone walls again. Jon’s devotion shamed a confession from him.

“I have prayed for Arya’s return in every godswood we’ve seen,” he whispered. “I cannot fathom her survival, but I still pray.”

“I kneel in prayer for Arya every night, before heart trees and before rivers.” Robb smiled tearfully.

“We should pray together.” Jon hugged him fiercely, bare skin colliding with leather with enough force to create a dull thwack. “We always could coax her out of hiding when we raised our voices together.”

The girl who had caught his eye from the camp fire was waiting for him as soon as he ducked out of Jon’s tent. She had a pretty face, long, and full lips. A queer disappointment filled him when he saw that her eyes were the same deep brown shade as her hair. He made his way toward his own tent, neither bidding her follow him nor commanding she leave him.

He was half surprised when she slipped into the tent behind him. His squire had made quick work of the horses, for all the candles in his tent were lit and a full flagon of wine sat on his table beside a single cup. In the ample candlelight, the whore seemed younger and less hardened than she had in the amongst his men.

He looked at the lone cup and felt shame rise in him. If Jeyne were there, he would have two cups and he would not have even thought to bring a whore to their tent. He filled his cup with wine and resolved to send the whore away before he could dishonor himself even more.

Only, when he turned back to her, she had cast off her gown, breasts small and high on her chest, hair dark and thick between her thighs, and cast her eyes to the floor such as that he could not see their color. The shame was overpowered by arousal as his blood rushed south to his cock. He drained his cup.

“How old are you?”

“Six-and-ten.” She shifted her slight weight from foot to foot. “M’lord.” Your Grace, he nearly corrected her and then felt ashamed for the instinct. It was a little man who needed to announce his title to every person he met. It was strange though, to not recognize the king you follow. Unbidden, his eyes drifted to the table where his crown sat while he slept and realized with a start that he had left it in Jon’s tent. The girl truly did not know him.

She must have come from the village to their camp that night, as soon as the fighting had finished. Now that he had gotten a good look at her, he was certain, she was too clean and smelled far too lovely to have been traveling with them through the Riverlands. The knowledge that the girl was from town and not a member of their camp eager to win the King in the North’s affections in the hopes she would be his camp bride emboldened him.

Robb cupped her little breast, feeling her nipple pebble against his palm.

“Sit.” He pulled a chair away from the table in the corner of his tent. The girl hesitated for a moment, looking over his shoulder at his bed, so he stepped into her space, backing her into the chair. She stumbled then sat, thighs falling open.

He put out half the candles, favoring the shield of shadow.

Robb sat himself on the edge of his bed and began the work of unlacing his breeches, as his cock strained against them.

“Would m’lord like—?”

“No.” His tone was harsh. The girl fought off a flinch as her eyelashes fluttered. He swallowed, and did his best to soften his voice before he spoke again, “Just, sit there. And don’t let me see your eyes.”

She obeyed, keeping her eyes lidded though he could feel the weight of her gaze upon him. Finally free from confinement, his cock bobbed softly, jutting up hard as anything. He kicked off his breeches and laid on his back, looking over at the girl.

Robb spit into his palm and took himself in hand. A ripple of pleasure moved through him at the contact. His eyes flickered from the girl’s long face to her slick thighs to her navel to her little breasts, then back to her face and her tangled brown hair.

His breathing picked up as did the movement of his hand over his cock. His tongue felt restless in his mouth, running along his teeth and tapping against his open lips. He stilled for a second to spit on his cock again and then thrust into his hand, gaze bouncing between the girl’s breasts and hair, catching just the shape of her face without features in his periphery.

Two slim braids held back the hair at her temples, it was not a Northern style, but they made him think of the North regardless. He slid slickly against himself, inching closer to the edge.

He fought to keep his eyes open as they drooped with both drunkenness and arousal. The girl had closed her legs and her thighs rubbed together, clearly seeking her own release. Robb tensed the muscles in his own thighs, making use of the pain for his pleasure.

The hairs on his arms stood on end. His thumb passed over the head of his cock and the stimulation combined with the sweet agony in his legs was enough to force him to draw a sharp intake of breath that verged on a hiss.

Desire pooled low in his stomach but the object of it was fuzzy, it was not quite the girl and not quite Jeyne, but some other girl with flushed skin and dark hair.

Robb imagined burying himself in her, imagined her high keening cries, hair brushed free of tangles, grey eyes blown wide with pleasure. He imagined filling her with his seed, planting a babe in her belly.

The room went grey and a buzzing filled his ears. Distantly, he felt the wet splatter of his come against his belly. Robb panted, coming down from his peak.

Before he could stop her, the girl was cleaning the mess from his stomach with short strokes. Around the cloth, her rough fingers brushed against him. When she pulled back, arms falling to her sides, he could see his seed coated her fingers.

“Girl,” he said. “Blow out the candles.”

He took the hand which was sticky with his seed and pulled her into his bed, tucking her into his chest. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple and stroked her hair, lulled a little more into sleep every time his fingers caught in a tangle.

When Robb woke at dawn, he was hard again, his cock ignorant that the girl in his bed was not his queen. He paid no heed to his state as he shook the girl awake. She blinked sleepily, rolling her hips as she felt him against her rear. He pulled away from her, sitting up. The girl seemed to come back to herself somewhat at his rebuff and sat beside him in the bed.

Robb reached beneath his bed and pulled out a purse. He drew out a single dragon and handed it to the girl.

“M’lord, I can’t.” He didn’t want to hear her say she had never been paid more than a silver, and for far more than he had done, or that in truth she was just some precocious innkeeper’s daughter that he had despoiled. He drew another dragon from the purse and forced that into her hand, too.

“You can. Now, run back to your village. His Grace will have my head if he hears I’ve spent the night abed with a whore instead of resting.” She dressed, tucking the coins into her bodice, and ducked through the tent flap without another word. His head throbbed from his drinking the night before. One of his hands cradled the base of his skull while the other went to his forehead where his brain seemed to throb.

Drinking and whoring, a rotten king like all the rest.

A cloud of guilt hovered just above his skin, though he wished it did not. The girl had been nothing, and he had not even taken her, had barely touched her, but he knew her grey eyes would haunt him for the rest of his days.


End file.
